


A Lonely House

by Gwyn_Paige



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fluff, Ghosts, Haunted Houses, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, TMA Fantasy Week (The Magnus Archives)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:36:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29929398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyn_Paige/pseuds/Gwyn_Paige
Summary: The old mansion Jon has just moved into is haunted by a particularly lonely and foggy ghost.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 48
Kudos: 156





	A Lonely House

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for TMA Fantasy Week over on Tumblr, for the prompt "Spirit."
> 
> Content warning for the mention of death, but no graphic details.
> 
> Enjoy!

When Jon’s grandmother passed, she left him the great, old house she had resided in during the later years of her life. The house was a grey Victorian mansion up on a grey cliffside, on the outskirts of a grey village, under a grey sky, overlooking a grey sea. This was fitting, Jon thought as he watched the movers drag his trunks up the front steps, for when she was still alive his grandmother had been a rather grey woman herself.

Jon was not surprised that she had left him everything in her will, including the towering, slightly foreboding building that Jon was now in charge of. He knew, of course, of the rumors; all houses such as this had histories, rather more bad than good, and the townspeople talked. As he was exploring the town after he had moved in, he was warned by several villagers that the place was haunted, and had been long before his grandmother had chosen to reside there.

Jon had put no stock in the rumors of ghosts, but he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to learn about the local history. Despite Jon’s inheritance of the place, the house was not the sort to be passed on, generation to generation; rarely did an owner stay long enough to do so. It seemed the house had had a fairly ordinary reputation up until 1928, when the mysterious death of a young man had occurred on the premises. Since then, the house had changed ownership about twice a decade, or more. Owners complained of the place feeling cold and lonesome, even with the hearth lit and company over, and yes, there were always the reports of things that went bump in the night that frightened people into selling the house again.

Jon had scoffed at these complaints, for of _course_ the place was cold and lonesome, it was up on a cliffside in northern England. As for ghosts, well, mysterious deaths had a way of causing people’s imaginations to run away with themselves.

Over the course of his first month in the house, Jon grew more and more certain in this position. The place was no country cottage, but it was comfortable enough, and there was plenty of room for his books. It was fall when he moved in, getting on to winter, and the days were grey as the sea, but Jon certainly didn’t feel _cold_. The fireplace in the living room was plenty warm, as was the small woodburning stove in the upstairs bedroom Jon had claimed for himself. True, he did sometimes miss the hustle and bustle of London outside his door, but such was village living. Jon had never been one for company, anyway.

Moreover, there was not the slightest hint of a haunting.

About six weeks after Jon moved in, that began to change. It began, as these things tended to do, innocently enough, with occasional creaks and shifting sounds, always late at night. Jon kept odd hours and was often awake to hear these, but paid them no mind. During the day, Jon would find books misplaced or missing from the shelves of the house’s modest library. Jon knew his own habits, and chalked it up to his absentmindedness (though the books always seemed to be poetry books, which Jon never read). Sometimes Jon almost thought he heard footsteps on the staircase, or in another room, but when he went to investigate there was of course no one there, and he determined this to be the sounds of the house settling.

Then, early one morning, Jon came downstairs to find the entire ground floor of the house covered in a strange, thick fog.

It encompassed everything about a foot above the floor, creeping up the staircase and curling around corners. It seemed to cling to the legs of every bit of furniture and swallowed the rugs whole in a dense, grey soup. Jon’s shoes disappeared into it as though he were wading through a bog.

Jon opened every window and waved a fan at the implausible, stubborn mist, but nothing really helped. By mid-morning the sun had made an attempt to come out from behind the grey clouds that never quite seemed to abandon the tiny seaside town, and at last, the fog gradually faded away. Jon spent the rest of the day drinking cup after cup of tea and Googling strange weather phenomena, but he found nothing of any help.

The weird fog must have been a fluke, Jon thought, as he went to bed early that night. Sure enough, when he woke the following morning and at once tore downstairs, there was not a bit of it to be seen.

This was far from the end of things. In fact, it only grew more inexplicable from there.

Jon was afflicted, now, with less dismissable bumps in the night, such as clanging pots and pans, as though someone were looting his kitchen, which was always undisturbed when he checked. Stacks of books that Jon was certain he hadn’t touched stood on the tables and inconvenient spots on the floor.

The fog returned, and now it was no longer spread out across the floor but instead gathered in different corners of the house, as dense and strange as ever. One morning Jon awoke, damp and freezing, to find his own bedroom full of the stuff.

He tried latching the windows and doors tight, and then keeping them wide open, but nothing seemed to work. The fog would return, time and again, in smaller and smaller but denser patches, at random throughout the house.

Jon did not let the word _ghost_ cross his mind, but even he had to admit that this all added up to something, if not supernatural, then certainly _un_ natural.

The final straw was when Jon came downstairs one morning to find a steaming kettle and a mug of hot tea sitting on the kitchen table.

“Right!” he said, slamming his hands down on the back of a chair. “Whoever you are, _what_ ever you are, if you’d be so kind as to let me know what the hell you’re up to, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

The house was still and silent. Steam wafted faintly off of the mug in the chill morning air.

Jon, who had been intending to make a cuppa himself, reached out hesitantly and took a small sip. Strangely, it wasn’t one of the blends he kept in his cupboard. It was more herby, and aromatic, and rather good, Jon thought.

“Well,” he said, tentatively, “if you’re going to be sticking around for a while, whoever you are . . . I suppose it would be better if we weren’t enemies.”

The following day the fog was clustered in the upstairs bathroom. When Jon went in to brush his teeth, he found it wafting innocently by the claw-footed bathtub. On the fogged-up bathroom mirror, as though drawn with someone’s finger, a message was neatly printed:

_My name’s Martin. I’m glad you liked the tea._

Jon angled his gaze at the patch of fog, which was starting to look more and more like someone trying very hard to blend into the wall. “Yes, it was very good, thank you,” he said. He debated for a moment whether it was appropriate to try to shake hands with a patch of sentient fog, and decided against it. “I’m Jon. Although I’m sure you know that already.”

The fog wafted itself over to the mirror, and a new message quickly obfuscated the first:

_I try not to snoop. But you do talk to yourself a lot. So, yeah._

Jon’s face heated. “I don’t do it _that_ often.”

The fog gave the impression it was tilting its head doubtfully. The mirror said, _I don’t mind, really. Been a while since there’ve been voices in the house._

Jon nodded. His grandmother had always been the quiet, severe type. She’d tried to keep Jon from talking aloud to himself for years, before realizing it was a lost cause.

_Sorry about all the fuss, by the way,_ the mirror was saying. There was a judgmental pause. _Normally I don’t have to resort to making tea to get people to notice I’m here._

“I can’t help it if other people lack a healthy amount of skepticism,” Jon said archly, though he did feel rather sheepish.

_Right,_ said the mirror, somehow sarcastically.

“Anyway, I’m noticing you now.” Jon stared pointedly at the fog. It might have been entirely his imagination, but it seemed . . . more solid than it had before. If fog could be said to be solid at all, that is. “Whoever you are.”

_I told you, I’m Martin._

“Yes, yes,” said Jon, “but _what_ are you, really? You . . .” A thought occurred to Jon, one that he was intensely embarrassed about but couldn’t help asking. “Martin, you didn’t . . . _die_ here, did you?”

The reply was quick and to the point. _Yeah, of course I did._

Despite himself, Jon felt his stomach grow cold. “S-So you’re . . .”

_I’m a ghost, Jon, yes. Nice to meet you too._ The fog, which was looking more and more like the vague shape of a person every minute, made a movement which could have been a nod.

Jon couldn’t think of anything to say except, “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

The fog didn’t exactly make any sound, but it gave the distinct impression of a chuckle. _Better start, then. You’re looking at one._ Then, abruptly, the fog seemed to curl in on itself a bit. _I understand,_ said the mirror after a moment, _if you want to leave, now._

“I—if I what?”

_If you want to leave. Move out. Most people do, once they meet me. I freak them out, which I can understand. That’s why I try not to make a fuss._

Jon bit his lip. He, too, had been freaking people out all of his life; first his grandmother, then his teachers and classmates, and then his coworkers, usually because he was making a fuss. He regarded the patch of fog, which now formed the very distinct, if featureless, grey silhouette of a person. A very self-conscious-looking person. “I’m not moving out,” Jon said decisively.

_Really?_

“Of course not. You’re fascinating, and I don’t walk away from fascinating things.” He paused, and felt it prudent to correct himself: “People, I mean.”

The patch of fog grew still, and the message appeared on the mirror slowly: _Fascinating?_

Jon felt his face heat. “I—well, y-you seem . . . I mean . . . you’re a bloody ghost! Of course you’re fascinating,” he said defensively.

Again, the fog moved as though to laugh. _Of course._ Somehow its presence—Martin’s presence, Jon reminded himself—felt stronger than before, though surely it must have been Jon’s imagination.

Thus went Jon’s first meeting with a ghost. It could, he thought in retrospect, have gone much worse.

Finding themselves in close quarters, the two of them spoke all the time after that; rather, Jon spoke and Martin wrote. They found that though they had little in common, they had much to talk about; Jon wanted to hear all about what it was like living in the early decades of the 1900s, and Martin was curious about all the modern developments he had missed over the years.

The one thing they did share was a love of literature, though their tastes differed greatly. Martin was, as Jon had suspected, a fan of poetry, and the books he’d stacked up were some of his favorites. Jon couldn’t say that he cared much for any of it, but since Martin insisted poetry was best read aloud, Jon often offered to read the poems aloud for the both of them, his voice echoing off the high library ceiling as Martin’s misty form lingered nearby.

In time Jon discovered that Martin could only move things around and write on mirrors when he managed to collect himself enough, rather than floating around as ineffectual wisps of fog. This had been difficult for him before, Martin told him, but now, with Jon around, he found it much easier.

_It’s about attention, I think,_ Martin explained, the words appearing on the large standing mirror that Jon had exhumed from the attic. It was by far the largest mirror in the house, and much easier for Martin to compose long sentences on. Jon had placed it in his bedroom, and was sitting on his bed now, watching the words appear. _When I’m alone here, I’m all spread out. Can’t get ahold of myself. But when someone’s around it’s easier. If they’re paying attention to me, or what I’m doing, it’s even easier. That’s why I always try to make noise and move stuff around. People notice. Even if they’re scared and leave afterwards. For a little while, they’re paying attention, and I’m more—_ the writing paused for a moment— _present, I guess._

_Never had anyone pay attention for so long, though,_ Martin went on. _Or try to talk to me. I haven’t felt this together since I was alive._

“Really?” Jon furrowed his brow and stared at Martin, still only a silhouette made of fog but growing more solid by the day. “No one else tried to talk to you?”

Martin shook his head. _They all left before they got the chance. Or never knew I was here in the first place._

“Well, it’s their loss, for being so close-minded,” Jon said, and was quite satisfied to see Martin shake with a laugh. “But did you . . . I mean, do you mind if I ask you—what were you like when you were alive?”

_There’s a photo, actually. I can show you._ Martin drifted out of the room, phasing straight through the door and out into the hallway. Jon quickly followed, and eventually the fog stopped on the second floor landing, in front of an assortment of framed photographs hanging on the wall. Martin, with nothing to write on, pointed a misty finger at a small black and white photo, down in the righthand corner.

A young man wearing a button-down shirt and a 1920s-era vest stared back at Jon. He was heavyset, and looked about thirty, with dark hair and skin, and wore a pair of large, bottle-lensed glasses. He was smiling faintly at the camera, but his eyes were strangely sad.

They were kind, too, though. Jon found he quite liked those eyes.

“You . . . ah . . . you looked nice,” Jon said, for lack of anything better. It hardly seemed the moment to call someone handsome.

They quickly returned to Jon’s bedroom, so Martin could write again. _I lived here with my mum,_ he explained. _Way back in the 1920s. My dad bought the place before I was born but he left soon after and I never really knew him. We managed to hold onto the property, but it was just me and mum in this huge old house we couldn’t really afford to take care of. I did my best, but,_ and here the writing on the mirror paused, _I guess it wasn’t enough. Then mum got sick and we definitely couldn’t afford that, so the doctor sent her to a home in the south, where the weather was better, but she didn’t improve. And then it was just me, all alone here._

_And then one morning I woke up and I was just dead. I’m still not sure why, or how. Just that I was all foggy and couldn’t really do or say anything, and all I could do was move around the house, watching and waiting for someone to come and find my body. It was a week before someone finally came by and noticed the smell._

Jon’s throat was full. He wasn’t sure what to say. What _could_ you say, to a story like that? “Martin, I—I’m so sorry. That’s . . . that’s horrible.”

Martin didn’t reply. He hovered despondently over the bed, near where Jon was sitting. Jon wished Martin had a hand he could hold, or any way to give him comfort. To be all alone like that, for so long, unnoticed and unmourned . . . Jon wondered if anyone else alive knew who Martin was, or what had happened to him, or how alone he’d felt. Certainly no one who lived in the house had ever cared to listen.

Jon was mildly surprised to find he was growing misty-eyed. “I’m sorry,” he said again, though the words felt hollow.

Martin made an abortive motion towards him, as though wanting to reach out and forgetting himself, for a moment. Words appeared on the mirror: _Don’t cry. It was a long time ago. I’m alright now, mostly. Used to it._

Jon swallowed and rubbed at his eyes. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “you’d better get used to _not_ being alone, Martin, because I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Martin laughed his silent laugh. _That’s kind of you._

“Human decency, that’s all,” Jon said. He couldn’t get the sad eyes of the man in the photo out of his head. He didn’t want Martin to feel that lonely again.

As one might imagine, the pair of them grew closer after that. Martin was still only a humanoid shape, sometimes hazy and spread thin, sometimes nearly solid enough that Jon almost felt he could reach out and touch him. If Martin was feeling less put together, he’d avoid Jon, drifting vaguely in the corners of the house where Jon couldn’t find him. Jon always tried, though. Sometimes he’d call Martin’s name, though he knew there would be no reply, just to make sure Martin knew Jon was thinking of him. And, inevitably, when a haze of fog would creep cautiously around the doorway to whichever room Jon happened to be in, Jon couldn’t help smiling to himself.

_Do you have any family, Jon?_ Martin asked one day, not long after their conversation about his mother. _Aside from your grandmother, I mean._

“Not really. She was all I had left,” said Jon. It sounded rather maudlin, to put it that way, but it was the truth. “My parents died when I was young, so she took care of me instead. I don’t have any siblings or cousins, at least that I know of.” Jon thought for a moment. “Considering she left me everything, I imagine that my grandmother didn’t have anyone else, either.”

_This house seems to attract those sorts of people, doesn’t it. Lonely people, with no one else._

“Hm. Maybe,” said Jon.

_You don’t sound convinced._

“I just don’t believe in that sort of thing, that’s all.”

_You don’t think a place can have bad intentions? Or an aura that attracts a certain type of person?_

Jon thought about it for a minute, then said, carefully, “I don’t believe that we’re trapped by our predilections. Maybe we’re lonely sometimes. Maybe we’re lonely _most_ of the time. But that doesn’t define us. It isn’t who we are. If a house is haunted by more than just a ghost, if it’s haunted by . . . I don’t know, the idea of loneliness, let’s say, then maybe instead of accepting that as fact, we should push against it. Why should it get to tell us who we are? Why should we be trapped by it?”

There was a long pause. Martin hovered thoughtfully by the mirror for several moments before another message appeared. _I guess I’m not very good at pushing against it, then._

“Maybe we can do it together,” Jon said, a little desperately. “I’m here, now. Maybe I can help you. We . . . we can help each other.”

_I don’t know, Jon._

Jon deflated a bit. “Well—think about it, at least.”

_I will._ And though Jon couldn’t see Martin’s expression, if he had one at all, he got the distinct impression Martin was smiling at him.

In the past, Jon had not often sought out company, not necessarily because he disliked it but because it was just easier for everyone involved if he didn’t. He had spent most of his life being told, or at least given the distinct impression, that most of the people he met simply did not want him around. He had never been able to discern why this was, or what he could possibly do to fix it, and so Jon had, at one point or another, decided to stop bothering to make friends, no matter how much he wanted to.

He had managed to make friends with Martin, however, and it was almost shocking how easy it was. Jon liked Martin, very much, in fact; he was interesting, and clever, and stubborn in ways Jon had to begrudgingly admire. On occasion, he made Jon laugh, and Jon could scarcely remember the last time someone had been able to do that.

Moreover, and more extraordinarily, Martin seemed to like Jon as well. Perhaps spending time with Jon was just slightly preferable to whatever lonely ghost business Martin would have been getting up to otherwise, but unlike so many others, Martin actually seemed to enjoy having Jon around. He would talk with Jon for hours, and sit patiently while Jon read, and when Jon was babbling on about something he found interesting Martin would ask questions, good questions, that showed he was really listening. And _Jon_ could make _him_ laugh, too.

Jon kept finding himself stopping at the second story landing and staring at the photo of the handsome man with the sad eyes. He wanted to help Martin, somehow, though he wasn’t entirely sure in what way a ghost could be helped. Certainly he couldn’t bring Martin back to life. At least it would be nice to give him a hug, or hold his hand once in a while. If only ghosts could drink tea, Jon lamented.

The days grew shorter and greyer as the seasons turned, but Jon was sure to always keep his little woodburning stove lit. It worked wonders to fend off the chill, but it also had the welcome side effect of making Martin feel more present. The warmth, it seemed, made it easier for him to hold himself together. Jon began lighting the downstairs fireplace during the day as well, even if he didn’t really need it. For the first time since Jon had moved in, and possibly since before his grandmother had lived there, the house felt positively cozy.

Meanwhile, as the winter wore on, Martin continued to become, for lack of a better term, less ghostly. His face, once as blank and grey as the rest of him, gained the shadow of an expression, blurry and inconsistent, but undeniably there. There were times Jon could swear that if he reached out, Martin’s hands would be solid enough to hold.

Late one winter’s night, so late it was really morning, Jon awoke from a nightmare. He, like most everybody, had them occasionally, but unlike most people his nightmares were particularly intense and troublesome. He awoke with a shout, flailing around in the blankets, sweat beading on his brow, which was, unfortunately, all very routine for him in these moments. What was unusual was what he called out, in a haze of panic and fear, into the complete darkness of his bedroom, which was Martin’s name.

He shouted Martin’s name as a drowning man would shout for a hand up, and unlike most drowning men, he got what he asked for.

As Jon scrambled to sit up, one of his hands, which was casting around for something to grab onto, was suddenly encompassed in something that did not quite feel like flesh, but was not quite mist, either. It held his hand steady, and at once there was another similar sensation at Jon’s cheek, cupping it gently. Jon could see nothing in the room’s impenetrable darkness, but he knew that this must be Martin, though he was sure he’d never been so solid before.

Martin’s hands were not warm and not cold, but they were comforting, and Jon held fast to them. Soon enough, he found himself breathing evenly again, as the memory of the nightmare dissolved into vague, unpleasant impressions. With his free hand, Jon reached out and shakily felt for the rest of Martin, and soon he was touching something which felt remarkably like an arm, and then a shoulder, and then a cheek.

“Martin?” Jon whispered, almost shyly, into the darkness.

“Hi, Jon,” came a soft voice, and it took Jon a moment to realize what was strange about that.

“I—you—” Jon gaped for a moment. “Martin, y-you’re speaking. Out loud.”

“Huh,” said the voice that apparently belonged to Martin, “so I am.” Martin’s voice sounded odd, not quite all there, and it echoed slightly, but Jon could hear it well enough. It was a nice voice, Jon decided, and it fit well with the man in the photograph.

Jon wasn’t sure what to say at a time like this, awakened by a nightmare in the small hours of the morning, nearly embracing a ghost, but he figured he ought to start with an old favorite. “Thank you,” he murmured. “For, ah, helping.”

“Course. You called my name.”

“I did, didn’t I.” A thought occurred to Jon, a thought that was rather fanciful and maybe a little foolish, but then again, Jon had always been both of those things. “Is that why I can hear your voice now?”

There was a pause. “I dunno,” said Martin. “This hasn’t happened before. I’ve been at this a century and I’m still not clear what the rules are, if there are any to begin with. Does it . . . does it actually matter why?”

“I guess not,” said Jon.

“You feeling any better, now?”

“Yes, I am, yes.” It was strange, speaking with Martin so easily; Jon had gotten used to the long pauses in their conversations as Martin wrote out his answers. Everything was happening so quickly, now.

“Good.” Jon felt Martin’s thumb gently run across the space right below his eye, leaving a faint trail of mist in its wake. “You had me scared for a second there. Bit ironic, that.”

Jon managed a smile. “Good to know I can hold my own against a ghost.”

This made Martin laugh, and nothing could have prepared Jon for the sound of it. Like his voice, it was echoey and thin, but it sounded so _alive_. Seized by a months-old urge, Jon leaned forward, reaching out with both hands until he was able to wind them around Martin’s shoulders, and he pulled Martin into a hug.

“Oh,” he heard Martin say, a small exhalation of surprise. He returned the hug hurriedly, as though he’d only just remembered that it was something he could do. Maybe he had. “I . . . it’s been a while since . . .” The rest of the sentence drifted away into the darkness, but Jon understood.

Jon swallowed around the sudden tightness in his throat. Martin was nearly solid in his arms, perhaps just on the verge of slipping away, but Jon would not let him. It had been nearly a century, but Jon was here, now, and he knew all too well what it was to be lonely. “It’s been a while for me, too,” he said.

As they sat in Jon’s bedroom, enclosed together in the darkness, Jon marveled at how remarkably simple it had turned out to be, to push back against the loneliness that had brought them both to this place. Not easy, but simple; loneliness had a singular enemy, after all, and though it was not easy to find, once one had it, it was second nature to wield.

Soon enough Jon felt himself nodding off again, and he lay back against the pillows, still holding onto Martin. “Stay?” he asked, though the request was hardly necessary. Martin had lowered himself onto the bed to lie next to Jon, and held fast to him still. For a moment, just before he drifted off again, Jon fancied that perhaps Martin’s form left the slightest indent in the mattress next to him.

In the cold, grey light of the following morning, Jon woke up alone, and for a few moments was afraid that perhaps everything that had happened during the night had been only a fanciful dream. Anxiously, he made his way downstairs to the kitchen, and was greeted by the not entirely unfamiliar sight of a kettle and a steaming mug of tea.

Behind them, at the far end of the kitchen table, sat a young man. He was a grey-ish sort of man, about thirty, heavyset, with grey-ish hair and grey-ish skin, wearing grey-ish clothes. He was slightly blurry around the edges, and perhaps was not quite entirely there, but a good deal of him was.

Jon recognized him at once. Even if he hadn’t been the only ghost Jon was acquainted with, Jon would have known his face anywhere.

His eyes, Jon realized, were the only part of him that wasn’t grey. They were a deep, hearty brown, and even in the dull midwinter morning they were beautifully bright. There was no sadness in them now.

The handsome man from the photograph smiled up at Jon’s perplexed yet joyful expression, and said with a now-familiar voice, “Morning, Jon.”

Jon smiled back, cheeks aching. “Good morning, Martin.”

“Join me?”

Jon sat down in the chair opposite, not taking his eyes off of him. He watched as Martin slowly inched one grey hand across the table, and Jon met him halfway, lacing their fingers together. Martin’s hand was ever so slightly warm.

“It’s nice to finally, ah, see you,” Jon said. “Literally.”

Martin grinned, rather stunningly, and Jon felt his face grow warm. “It’s nice to be able to hold your hand.”

“Oh, well,” Jon said, “I’ll be sure not to let go, then.”

“What about the tea?” Martin nodded at the neglected mug.

Jon stared down at their joined hands, one dark and solid, the other grey but getting there.

“The tea can wait,” Jon said decisively, and every room in the great old house echoed with Martin’s laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
